


i watched it begin again

by merricats_sugarbowl



Series: i am always yours [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Pack Bonding, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Pining Derek, Rebuilding the Hale House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricats_sugarbowl/pseuds/merricats_sugarbowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Derek’s been thinking about it for a while now.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>He’s sick of having nightmares about smoke and flame; sick of the way his stomach tightens whenever he looks at the scorch marks on his old family home. It’s been years since the fire, and he should have put it behind him by now, but as long as the house still stands, he never will.</i>
</p><p>After months of nightmares about the fire, Derek decides that it's time he took care of the Hale house. With help from his pack, he rebuilds his family home, all while trying to ignore his feelings for one Stiles Stilinski.</p><p>(Set between seasons 2 and 3 with a few divergences from canon: Jackson doesn't go to London and Boyd and Erica are never captured by the alpha pack.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i watched it begin again

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting a Teen Wolf fic eeeeek! So if it wasn't clear, this is set sometime post season 2 and diverges from canon - Boyd and Erica never get captured by the alpha pack, Jackson never goes to London, etc, etc. I'm honestly not entirely sure where this would fit into canon (it's been a while since I watched season 2/3) but for the sake of argument let's just imagine that happy pack feelings are a possibility at the end of season 2.
> 
> This may become part of a series in the future, because it turns out I really like writing Hale pack bonding.
> 
> I'm [here](http://spasmodictricksofradiance.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

Derek’s been thinking about it for a while now.

He’s sick of having nightmares about smoke and flame; sick of the way his stomach tightens whenever he looks at the scorch marks on his old family home. It’s been years since the fire, and he should have put it behind him by now, but as long as the house still stands, he never will.

First, he thinks about just starting fresh—knocking the whole thing down, and building it up from scratch. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. Derek doesn’t flaunt his cash, but he gained a sizeable inheritance from his family. But ultimately, he can’t bring himself to do it. Knocking the house down might help to cleanse his mind of the trauma of the fire, but what if it erased his good memories, too? Lazy afternoons sitting on the porch with his mother, countless games of hide and seek with his sisters, learning to throw a ball with his father in the backyard. Ultimately, the promise of a fresh start doesn’t trump the comfort of happy memories.

So he decides on a full renovation, top to bottom. Gut the house, rid it of all traces of the fire, and turn it into something resembling a home again.

He doesn’t want to use contractors. There would be too many questions, and there’s always the chance of someone dredging up the truth about what went on here when Kate Argent used it as her home base. But Derek can’t do it alone, so he does what any self-respecting werewolf would, and calls on his pack for help.

Truth be told, it’s not entirely _his_ pack anymore. He and Scott have taken a sort of co-leadership role, which is almost unheard of among werewolves—but then, their pack is hardly what anyone could call conventional. For one thing, three of them aren’t even werewolves, and Danny Mehealani is starting to hover around the fringes too. A year ago, Derek would have been furious at the thought of a human infringing on the pack dynamic, but he’s seen what Stiles, Lydia and Allison have done for them, so if Danny wants to buy a ticket on the werewolf express, Derek’s not going to try and dissuade him.

He doesn’t include Danny in his official call for help though. He won’t try to dissuade Danny from hanging around with them, but he’s not going to encourage it, either. It’s not because of any prejudice he has towards humans. It’s just that hanging out with werewolves has its drawbacks as well as its benefits, and Derek has seen his human friends in too much danger to actively want to add to their number.

So he calls everyone else, and that’s how the ragtag, misfit Beacon Hills pack end up standing in front of the shell of the Hale house on the first day of summer vacation. Derek explains what he wants to do and is met with varying reactions, from apprehensive (Scott) to confused (Isaac) to just plain uninterested (Jackson).

“You want us to renovate your house?” Jackson says, a sneer curling his upper lip. Derek resists the urge to hit him. Jackson is a relatively good pack member, loyal, if unpleasant, but there are times when Derek just wants to pound some sense into him.

“Not my house,” Derek corrects him. He looks around at the rest of the group. “ _Our_ house. When my family were alive, the Beacon Hills pack lived here. It was like… like a base camp. Somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” Jackson snorts. “Your entire family burned to death inside that powder keg, dude.”

Derek closes his eyes and wonders if the pack would forgive him if he knocked out Jackson’s teeth.

But before he can get in a clean hit, Stiles is speaking. “No, no, I get it,” he says, speaking even more quickly than usual. “It’s like a safe haven, right? Somewhere we can meet up when things go wrong. Like those checkpoints for kids that get lost in the mall.”

Derek is taken aback by the fact that Stiles is the only one who managed to catch on, but nods. “Exactly. My family lived here for generations before Kate Argent burned it to the ground. It _was_ safe,” he says, looking pointedly at Jackson, who at least has the grace to flush, “until I saw to it that it wasn’t. We can make it safe again. If we fix it up, we can get Deaton to put wards up. We can protect ourselves here.”

He’s not usually one for rousing speeches, and it shows. But somehow it works. The pack are perking up. Lydia starts muttering to herself about colour palettes. Soon enough, with minimal prodding from Derek, they’re talking animatedly about damage control and the pros and cons of hardwood floors vs. carpeting.

They start right away, because as Lydia cheerfully reminds them, there’s no time like the present. The human portion of the pack can’t do much yet, so they take Stiles’s Jeep into town to get snacks. While they’re gone, everyone else gets to work carrying out the remnants of furniture and broken beams littering the house. Memories wash over Derek like a tide as he tosses out his dad’s old armchair, the bookshelf that his mother used to rest china figurines on, the baby swing they’d used when Derek was a toddler and never bothered to get rid of. He can’t afford to be sentimental about anything. If he’s going to get the fresh start he wants—no, _needs_ —then everything has to go.

By the time the sun is starting to dip below the trees, they’ve already made an impressive dent in their task. The entire house is cleared out. All Derek has to do is arrange for some kind of disposal service to take it all away, and in the meantime, they can get started on the _really_ hard stuff; rebuilding walls, repairing ceilings, fixing the roof. But not tonight. They’ve worked hard today and they deserve a break.

Guilt prickles his skin as he realises that he should have arranged some sort of dinner for them. They can’t even order take-out, because the Hale house hasn’t been listed since the fire.

Once again though, Stiles proves that having humans in the pack can be valuable, as he produces from the backseat of his Jeep a disposable barbecue and several packets of rapidly defrosting burgers. Scott mans the grill while Allison hands around paper cups of soda, and before Derek knows what’s happening, his pack meeting has turned into a twilit picnic.

Sitting on the grass surrounded by his pack, with the scent of burgers floating on the air and fireflies buzzing around, it almost feels like it did before the fire. Derek smiles. It’s already working. He can _feel_ himself letting go of what happened.

The blissful moment can’t last, however. It’s broken almost immediately by an exaggerated gasp as Stiles throws himself onto the grass beside Derek.

“Was that a smile I just saw, Sourwolf?” Stiles asks accusingly, tipping his soda in Derek’s direction. “You’re lucky nobody else saw that, or else you’d lose your status as the big bad wolf like _that_.” He tries and fails miserably to click his fingers, and Derek, despite wanting to smile again, feels his face slip into his trademark scowl.

 _Thank you for helping today_ , he wants to say. “You’re getting soda on my shirt,” is what he says instead.

Stiles looks at him, furrowing his brow like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just drains his soda and goes to join Scott by the grill, where he’s trying to impress Allison with his burger flipping skills. Derek watches him go, eyes lingering for a second on the strip of pale skin showing where Stiles’s shirt has ridden up. He averts his gaze as soon as he realises what he’s doing, and feels his face flush as he wonders if anyone noticed.

And there it is—the other thing that spurred Derek into acting on his plans for the house. Stiles.

Derek’s been noticing him more lately. It started off as an unconscious thing—a lingering glance here, a subtle touch there. Derek didn’t even realise that he was doing it, until he found himself looking for excuses to sit with Stiles at pack meetings, or searching out Stiles’s scent in his apartment once those pack meetings were over. By the time he figured it out, he was in too deep. He was dangerously close to opening himself up to Stiles, and that was unacceptable in more ways than one. First and foremost, Stiles was a teenager, just seventeen years old, and Derek was—well, he was closer to twenty than thirty, but still too old to be thinking about dating a teenager. The situation reminded him painfully of what he’d had with Kate Argent, but even thought that should have been enough to kill any inappropriate thoughts he had about Stiles, it wasn’t.

So, the renovation. Cleanse his nightmares of the fire, and hopefully cleanse his confusion about Stiles as well.

In retrospect, asking Stiles for help wasn’t one of Derek’s better ideas.

 

*           *           *

 

“I’m not the kind of guy who uses words like swimmingly,” Isaac says, “but if I _were_ , that’s exactly how I’d describe this renovation.”

It’s a warm day at the end of June, and the fourth time that the pack has met to fix up the house. Not everyone’s managed to show up this time. Allison is with her father, carrying out official hunter business, and Lydia and Jackson are attending her aunt’s wedding. Stiles is the only human pack member present, and he’s doing his best to show that he can run with the wolves as he helps Boyd stack cement blocks where the kitchen wall used to be. Derek is studiously avoiding looking at the way Stiles’s shirt rides up when he moves, and he certainly isn’t glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to admire the fine sheen of sweat on Stiles’s biceps.

His plan to get Stiles off his mind isn’t going as well as he’d hoped, but at least they’re not working together. Boyd and Stiles have been working in the kitchen all day, while Derek and Erica patch up what used to be the porch.

Isaac and Scott are helping by standing on the grass with their arms folded, nodding sagely and making encouraging comments every now and then. Derek is strongly tempted to throw one of the floorboards they’re using to patch up the porch at them, but manages to restrain himself by imagining how much worse things would be if they were helping. Scott and Isaac are great at heavy lifting, but after the last time Derek let them use a nail gun, he’s learned that anything involving sharp objects is best carried out _without_ their help.

Erica, on the other hand, is perfect for this. She’s just as strong as the boys, but with none of the idiotic antics that teenage boys seem to be compelled to perform when handed power tools. She does what he asks her to without complaint, unless the look of boredom on her face counts.

“So,” she says as he hammers down another floorboard. “When this is all finished, how’s this going to work? Do we move in? Because I’ve gotta tell you, my parents might not be the most hands-on, but even they’re going to think something’s up if I move into a house in the woods with a bunch of teenage boys and a scowly ex-con.”

Derek frowns. “I hadn’t thought it all the way through,” he admits, holding out his hand for another board. “When I was a kid, the whole pack lived here, but most of them were adults, or blood relatives. I guess it’s different now, since you’re all so… young.”

He says it with a touch of bitterness that he hopes Erica doesn’t hear. While he would _never_ admit it to his pack, Derek sometimes resents the fact that they’re all still teenagers. It’s not like he blames them for it—that would be stupid, since he actively sought most of them out. But it means that he’s always going to be seen as the creep in human society, the older guy who hangs around with teenagers because he can’t find any friends his own age. That’s _not_ the case (or at least that’s what Derek firmly tells himself), but it does strain the pack dynamic, make it harder for them to function. Like now, as Erica’s just pointed out to him. They obviously can’t all live in the Hale house. Derek would be accused of kidnapping.

It takes him a moment to realise that everyone is offering suggestions.

“We could each have our own room,” Scott says. “For when we need to get away?”

 _A start_ , Derek thinks, but it’s a long way from what he knew when he was young.

“Pot-luck dinners,” Erica suggests, smirking.

“Weekly pack slumber parties!” Stiles shouts, and then curses under his breath when he drops a hammer on his toe. When he stops swearing, he grins. “Pyjamas optional, of course.”

Isaac’s the only one who speaks seriously. “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” he says with a shrug. “I’m all for moving in here if that’s cool, Derek.”

 _It’s more than cool,_ Derek wants to say. _It’s what I want you_ all _to do._

“That’s fine,” is what he says instead.

“Maybe I’ll move in when I graduate,” Erica says thoughtfully. “Boyd?”

Erica and Boyd have been dating for a few weeks now. Derek’s mother would have said they were pair bonded, or called them one another’s mates, but Derek knows better than to use such obvious werewolf terminology in front of his pack. He grew up with the wolf inside of him. He’s not even sure what he would be without it. But his betas are still more human than wolf, and so they cling to human definitions. Derek could tell them that werewolves don’t date, and they’re similar to penguins in that they tend to mate for life, but he doesn’t want to scare them.

Boyd hefts another cement block onto the stack he’s building and then gives a non-committal shrug. “Whatever,” he says easily. “I might want to go to college first.” _First._ He says it like there’s no question of him coming back to Beacon Hills eventually. Derek’s stomach pools with warmth.

This is pack. This is the feeling he’s been missing since the fire.

He wants to tell them how much he appreciates them, how important they are to him, how he feels like he’s getting his family back—but he’s never been good with words. So he clears his throat, lowers his head and hammers another floorboard into place, growling in his best Alpha voice, “Get back to work.”

 

*           *           *

 

 Derek takes to sleeping in the Hale house.

It’s not like it was when he first came back to Beacon Hills and camped out in the hollowed out remains of his family home because he had nowhere else to go. He’s staying here because it’s finally starting to feel like a home again. The walls are almost completely rebuilt. The roof is patched, so it doesn’t leak when it rains. The windows have been refitted and the burnt floorboards replaced. It looks almost like it used to, even though it’s missing some furniture and the walls are bare cement.

For a ragtag bunch of werewolves and humans, they haven’t done such a shabby job.

He doesn’t tell the rest of the pack that he’s sleeping there. For some reason, he thinks that they’ll find it sad. He has a perfectly good apartment in downtown Beacon Hills, so really there’s no reason for him to be staying in the unfinished house, but still, he feels like he needs to. Maybe it’s part of the cleansing process.

He sets up a little bedsit for himself in the bare room that he plans on turning into the den. Nothing fancy, just a twin mattress with some blankets, an oil lamp and a stack of books for those nights when he can’t sleep. It’s cosy, even if it makes him feel a little like a homeless squatter.

Strangely enough, he sleeps better on his tiny twin mattress in the house than he ever did in the king-size bed in his apartment.

 

*           *           *

 

The house begins to look less like a DIY project and more like a home. Derek doesn’t feel so strange about sleeping there anymore once the walls are painted, but he still doesn’t tell the pack. He starts to think that it’s his way of connecting with the house again, reminding himself that even though it’s new, and different, it’s still the same place where he grew up. It’s his subconscious way of making sure he holds onto the good memories while getting rid of the bad ones.

He grows used to the sound of the forest around him instead of the cars outside his window. He falls asleep to the sound of crickets and rustling leaves, and wakes to sun streaming through the new windows. It’s an exercise in relaxation. Derek can feel himself loosening up with each night that he spends in the house.

Until the night that someone breaks in.

Derek wakes to the sound of a door wrenching open, and immediately he’s on alert. His wolf senses come to life, sniffing out the intruder, trying to sense if they’re a threat—and he’s met with the overwhelming scent of tomato juice. Frowning, he unsheathes his claws and stands in a crouch, ready to attack if the intruder dares to encroach on his territory.

He hears footsteps coming towards him and prepares himself to jump. There’s the sound of a hand sliding along the wall, and then the newly fitted ceiling light snaps on, and Derek pounces.

There’s a shriek as he lands on his target, and then Derek finds himself staring down at a shocked, indignant Stiles.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stiles demands.

Derek blinks at him. “I could ask you the same question,” he growls, getting to his feet and helping Stiles stand up.

“I asked first,” Stiles counters. Derek rolls his eyes, wondering, not for the first time, why he’s so enamoured by this idiot.

“It doesn’t matter what I was doing here,” he says, giving Stiles his best Alpha gaze. To his credit, Stiles doesn’t even tremble. “I don’t need permission to be here, it’s _my_ house. What are _you_ doing here in the middle of the night?”

Stiles looks down at his feet sheepishly and a sudden fear seizes Derek. What if he’s brought someone here? A girl, a guy, a _someone_? What if he was planning on using the empty Hale house as a make-out spot?

His panic must show on his face, because Stiles is widening his eyes and holding his hands up as if in surrender.

“Whoa, dude, it’s nothing bad,” he says frantically. “I just couldn’t sleep, okay? My mind’s just wired tonight. I figured I’d come here and do something useful instead of pacing around my room all night.” His gaze flickers to the mattress by the wall and his eyes widen some more. “Whoa, Derek, are you sleeping here?”

Derek ignores the question, leaning towards Stiles and sniffing. There’s that smell again, plain as day—the strong, unmistakeable scent of tomato juice. Derek frowns. “Did you bathe in tomatoes before you came here?” he demands.

“Tomato juice,” Stiles corrects him. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was here. I read online that tomato juice can mask just about any smell. But hey, back to you, are you _sleeping_ here?”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. There’s a beat of awkwardness, and then—

“Can I sleep here, too?”

Derek’s gaze snaps up to Stiles’s face, his jaw slackening at the implications behind that innocent question. He stares at Stiles for a long time before replying.

“I thought you couldn’t sleep,” he says, his words strangled. Stiles shrugs.

“Sometimes a change of scenery helps,” he says. “Look, it’s okay if you don’t want me to, I know that this is pack space and strictly speaking I’m not ‘pack’, but—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Derek growls. “You can stay. Take the mattress, I’ll sleep on the floor.” Stiles looks like wants to argue, but the red flash in Derek’s eyes warns him not to. Instead, he just settles down on the twin mattress, handing Derek one of the blankets so he can get comfortable on the floor.

They’re silent for a long time. Derek appreciates how hard it must be for Stiles to remain quiet and chalks it up to nerves. Their situation right now… if Derek’s being honest, it’s a little too much like a bad romantic comedy. If his life _were_ a bad romantic comedy, this would be the part where he confessed his feelings to Stiles. And then they’d make love on Derek’s shabby little twin mattress (except not, because Derek can’t stand that phrase. They’d fuck, that’s what they’d do) and in the morning, Stiles would reveal a hidden talent for cooking and make Derek breakfast in bed. Except there’s no stove in the house yet, and Stiles has commandeered the closest thing to a bed in the house.

Derek sends a silent thank you to a God that he isn’t sure if he believes in that his life _isn’t_ a romantic comedy.

But even so, he can’t help but be hyper-aware of Stiles beside him. Derek’s nose is finally becoming accustomed to the overpowering scent of tomatoes. He can sniff out Stiles’s natural scent beneath it now, that heady mixture of citrus and ink and strangely, coffee. Stiles doesn’t drink coffee—it plays havoc with his already unpredictable attention span—but for as long as Derek has known him, Stiles has smelled of dark roast Italian coffee. Derek inhales it as discreetly as he can, and he’s so caught up in it that he jumps when Stiles finally speaks.

“Why are you sleeping here?” he asks, and it’s not his usual sarcastic tone. There’s no joke or flippant remark hiding behind his words. Derek thinks he can hear concern behind them. Stiles isn’t looking at him, but he shrugs anyway.

“Made sense,” he says shortly. He doesn’t elaborate, and Stiles, for once, doesn’t press. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Stiles snorts. “Dude, I have ADHD and I spent most of my nights last year researching werewolf crap. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since Scott got bitten.”

Derek isn’t sure of how to respond. It feels like one of those loaded statements, the kind where you’re expected to reply with advice or at the very least, sympathy. But Derek’s not good at either of those. So he stays silent until Stiles speaks again.

“Plus, no offence or anything, but the whole pack thing is getting to me.”

Derek prickles at that. Regardless of his crush on Stiles, no-one is allowed to insult pack. “Excuse me?” he says, his voice slipping into a growl again. Stiles holds up his hands.

“Easy, big guy,” he says. “I love everyone just as much as you do. But it’s not easy being the only human in a werewolf pack.”

Derek frowns. “You’re not. There’s Allison, Lydia. They’re pack too.”

“Because of Scott and Jackson,” Stiles points out. “And because you need to keep the Argents on your good side. Lydia and Allison have a reason to be here. I don’t.”

“Scott,” Derek says after a moment. “You’re here for Scott, too.”

It’s not what he wants to say. He wants Stiles to know how important he is to the pack dynamic, but there’s no way for him to tell the truth without sounding like a stalker. The truth is, Stiles is just as important as the betas—maybe even more. Derek would happily eject Jackson from the pack, if the choice were between him and Stiles. Derek’s still adjusting to the idea of a pack with human members, but deep down he knows that without Stiles Stilinski, the new Beacon Hills pack would be very different.

But he doesn’t know how to say that, so he bites his tongue. Stiles waits a minute before replying, and when he does, his voice is sleepy.

“I guess,” he says, fighting back a yawn. “I don’t know, I just feel like I have to be useful, if you’re going to keep me around. Earn my keep.”

“You’re plenty useful,” Derek says, a hint of a growl behind his words. He doesn’t say anything else—he doesn’t know how—but it doesn’t matter, anyway. He can tell from the rise and fall of Stiles’s chest that he’s already fallen asleep. Derek, on the other hand, is wide awake now, listening to the steady sounds of Stiles’s breathing.

He’s completely accustomed to the tomato juice now, and all he can smell is Stiles. There’s no escaping it. Derek sighs and resigns himself to a sleepless night.

 

*           *           *

 

It’s the middle of August now, and Derek is pleasantly surprised at the state of the house. It looks almost exactly as it did when he was growing up. They’ve kept the same basic design, with a few minor renovations—Erica insisted on having a private bathroom, and Isaac suggested a larger kitchen. Derek was happy to comply. The point of rebuilding the house wasn’t just to do something with the land, after all. It was to create a place where the pack could feel at home.

Derek thinks they’ve achieved that.

The exterior is completely finished now, with a freshly sanded porch, painted siding and a brand new porch swing, in the front _and_ the back. The interior is painted, and they’ve started putting furniture in. The kitchen is the only finished room, per Isaac’s request. He’s revealed a surprising talent for cooking, which comes in handy after a long day of working on the house. The actual building part is finished now. Mostly, they spend their time shopping for furniture and finding places to put it. Or, more accurately, the more fashionable members of the pack shop for furniture, and then direct their less fashionable friends on where it should go. Jackson and Lydia are in charge of these shopping trips, with help from Allison, Erica and occasionally Scott, although he’s more interested in spending time with Allison than picking out curtains.

It’s good that they’re almost finished, because school starts in just a couple of weeks. They’ll be juniors this year, all except for Boyd, who’s been taking summer classes so he can graduate early. If all goes according to plan, he’ll be ready to graduate by December. Derek isn’t sure what his plan is after that, but he doesn’t think he’ll stray far from Beacon Hills, at least not while Erica’s around.

Derek’s hope of cleansing the bad memories of the fire has been mostly fulfilled, with the added bonus of strengthening his pack. They still bicker and squabble constantly, and Jackson spends most of his time sneering at Stiles and Scott, but there’s affection there now. They’re becoming more and more like a real pack.

It’s more than he could have hoped for.

 

*           *           *

 

The house is finished the last week of August, just in time for the beginning of school. It’s Erica who insists on marking the occasion with a party, and Derek’s happy to comply, but he draws the line at inviting people from school.

“It’s a pack thing,” he says. “Invite Danny if you want, but I don’t want a bunch of humans at our housewarming.”

Erica pouts at first, but eventually concedes. “I guess it might look sketchy,” she muses, “an ex-con inviting a bunch of teenagers to a party in the woods.”

Ultimately, Jackson’s the one who decides they shouldn’t invite Danny. Derek’s surprised, because Jackson’s been pushing for Danny to be included in pack meetings since the beginning of the summer. Jackson doesn’t enlighten anyone on his reasons for omitting Danny’s name from the guest list, but Derek suspects that he’s sensed the change in the pack dynamic.

So it’s just them at the party, and Derek certainly isn’t going to complain about that. They’ve gone all out, even though it’s a small group. Isaac has spent all day cooking, Stiles has put together a playlist, Allison and Lydia have decorated. Against his better judgment, Derek has bought a keg and a selection of spirits. He would feel worse about aiding and abetting a crowd of underage drinkers, except it takes a _lot_ for werewolves to actually get drunk. He doubts that any of his betas will manage it, and once he keeps an eye on the humans, he thinks they should be fine. And it’s not like anyone’s going home to disapproving parents, anyway. They’ve all cleared it so they can stay in the Hale house tonight.

Derek’s stupidly happy about the fact that he won’t be the only one sleeping here tonight.

“So,” Scott says, sidling up to stand beside him. “You really did a great job on this place.”

It’s been a few hours since the party started, and things are in full swing. Erica and Boyd are in the den, slow dancing to a thrumming hip hop number. The others are playing some sort of drinking game—Derek hasn’t been paying attention to the rules, though he’s been keeping an eye on Allison, Lydia and Stiles. So far, none of them seem dangerously drunk. Lydia is giggling a lot and Stiles has apparently lost his sense of personal space, judging from the way he’s draped all over Allison, but that’s okay. Nobody’s vomiting yet, so Derek won’t intervene right now.

“It wasn’t just me,” he says, sending Scott what he hopes is a meaningful gaze. “It was everyone.”

“Yeah,” Scott acknowledges, “but it was a good idea. Giving us a place to go. It kind of makes everything more… real.”

“I’ve been telling you since you got the bite, pack is family,” Derek says with a shrug. “We needed somewhere to be a pack.”

It’s the first time he’s said anything of the sort to any of them, and he’s afraid for a moment that Scott will react badly. It’s an empty fear. There’s a brief pause and then Scott gives a slow, thoughtful nod and sips his beer.

“You were right, you know,” he says after a moment. “It is a gift. I mean, it’s a crappy, messed-up gift that comes with a whole lot of horrible strings attached, but I think it’s worth it.” He smiles at Derek. “What I’m saying is, I wouldn’t return it.”

It’s the closest Scott’s ever come to saying that he’s happy he got bitten. Derek can’t help but smile back.

Scott claps him on the back and then disappears into the kitchen with Allison, probably off to do all sorts of nefarious things on the brand new countertops. Derek pretends not to notice, just like he pretends not to notice when Lydia and Jackson disappear upstairs, or when Boyd and Erica very pointedly close the door of the study behind them. Isaac and Stiles are still playing the drinking game that Derek doesn’t know the rules to, but before long, Isaac tires and excuses himself to go to bed.

Derek’s not sure how it happened, but he and Stiles are the only ones left in the living room.

He abandons his watchman post for the first time that night. With everyone paired off (or, in Isaac’s case, fast asleep) there’s no more need for him to play chaperone. He refills his beer and heads over to sit beside Stiles, who seems very content with how the evening has turned out. He’s drunk just enough to get a light buzz going, Derek thinks, but probably not enough that he feels queasy. He practically beams at Derek as he approaches.

“I love your house,” he says. “Your house is the best. We should all just live here.”

“Maybe when you graduate,” Derek suggests, although there’s no feeling behind it. Erica and Boyd will move in, that’s almost a sure thing. Isaac’s already living here. Maybe Jackson and Scott will move in after graduation, but Derek has no allusions about the human members of his pack. He’s not even certain if Jackson and Scott will want to stay here permanently.

Stiles seems pleased by his suggestion, though. His eyes light up and he starts talking rapidly, the way he always does when he gets excited. “Yeah!” he enthuses, beer sloshing out of his cup as he gestures. “We’ll all move in together and Isaac can cook because he’s masterchef, or something, and Lydia can pick out everybody’s outfits and Jackson can still be a dick, because he’s good at that, and—”

That’s when Derek realises that maybe Stiles has drunk more than he thought, and he reaches out to take the cup from his hand. Stiles is so busy babbling that he doesn’t even notice.

“We can start our own traditions, too, like candy for breakfast on Saturdays and pizza Mondays and maybe we could have a game room,” he says. He stops suddenly, frowning. “But there’s not enough bedrooms so we’ll have to double up, maybe. Lydia and Allison—or, no. Lydia and Jackson, and Allison and Scott, and Boyd and Erica—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “Stop talking. Breathe.”

“I guess I could share with Isaac,” Stiles says, ignoring Derek’s advice. “Unless you think he’ll want a girl to move in. Or a guy, I don’t know what he’s into. But that could be awkward, if he was in a relationship and we had, like, bunkbeds.” He looks sad all of a sudden. “I guess I wouldn’t be able to move in, then.”

 _You could bunk with me_ , Derek thinks.

Stiles’s eyes light up again. “I could?” he says, and Derek realises that he spoke his thoughts aloud.

“Sure,” he says, cautious suddenly.

“Great!” Stiles says, grinning. “Hey. Where is everybody?”

Derek coughs. “Occupied.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “That’s gonna happen around here a lot from now on.”

Derek blinks at him. “You think?”

And then Stiles is laughing, loud and happy, and his head is lolling on Derek’s shoulder. “Dude, you’ve basically just given a bunch of horny teenagers a place where they can get away from their parents,” he says. “There’s going to be so much _sex_.”

Derek frowns. “That’s not what this was about.”

“No,” Stiles agrees, “but it is an added bonus.”

He falls silent, head still lolling against Derek, and Derek thinks that he’s fallen asleep. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do in this situation—he thinks that he should probably help Stiles upstairs and into one of the empty bedrooms, but somehow he doesn’t think that Stiles would be very appreciative of that in the morning.

He decides to help Stiles onto the couch instead, but when he tries to heft him into a standing position, Stiles gives a little moan.

“What’re you doing?” he says pathetically, and Derek’s heart twangs.

“Stiles, you’re drunk.”

“’M’not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Derek manages to cart him over to one of the new couches that Lydia and Jackson picked out, and Stiles collapses onto it like a rag doll. Derek fetches a glass of water from the kitchen and when he returns, he finds Stiles propped up against the couch cushions, looking pensively at the coffee table. He accepts the water without argument and drinks a few gulps, then looks up, fixing Derek with a gaze that’s far too piercing for someone who’s drunk.

“Hey, Derek?” he says softly.

“Yeah?”

“You meant what you said, right? That night that I broke in here. I’m pack?”

“Of course,” Derek says, his tone perhaps too fierce for the situation. “Why, Stiles? What’s wrong?”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “I dunno, I guess… it just feels different now, y’know? Things have changed. You guys all bonded over the house, but I still feel like I don’t belong. I’m not connected like Allison and Lydia are.”

Derek wishes that he could tell him that he does belong; that if Derek had his way, he _would_ be connected. He can’t, though. He’s too old for Stiles. Maybe when he’s older, maybe then something can happen between them, but for now, Derek has to be the bigger person.

But damn if his heart doesn’t break a little when Stiles looks up at him with those huge, dark eyes of his, and says, “Will you stay down here with me? Just for a little while?”

He knows that he should say no, but he can’t.

“Alright. For a little while.”

So he sits beside Stiles on the couch and tries not to flinch when Stiles presses close. This is just how Stiles gets when he’s been drinking; his sense of personal space is sketchy at the best of times, but alcohol turns him into a touch-obsessed infant.

“Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“You smell good.”

The words set alarm bells ringing in Derek’s head and he tries to shift away, but Stiles is clinging to his arm with a vice-like grip. “Stiles,” he says firmly, “let me go.”

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Stiles says. “I know that you look at me.”

Derek’s cheeks flame red. “Stiles, let _go_.”

“You can admit it. I won’t be mad.” Stiles’s voice drops a little, growing husky. “I like that you look at me.”

Derek yanks his arm away, moving so that there’s at least a foot of space between him and Stiles on the couch. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Stiles argues, and then he’s shifting forward and pressing his lips to Derek’s.

The alarms in Derek’s mind intensify; he knows that he should push Stiles away, tell him that he’s wrong. But it’s difficult to do the right thing when Stile’s lips are on his and his arms are snaking around Derek’s neck and all Derek can smell is that heady, wonderful mixture of citrus, ink and coffee.

He can have this, just for a moment. He can enjoy it now, because he can never let it happen again. He wanted to renovate the house to make some good memories here, and this, he thinks, is one for the history books. He can this. He can just have this.

So he closes his eyes and puts one hand on the back of Stiles’s neck, deepening the kiss and nipping at Stiles’s bottom lip with his teeth, prompting a moan. Stiles tastes like vodka and lime and the cheap beer that Derek got for the party.

He wonders how Stiles would taste sober, and that’s when he comes to his senses and pulls away.

“Stop,” he says when Stiles tries to kiss him again, and Stiles draws back, looking hurt.

“Why?” he says petulantly.

“Because you’re seventeen,” Derek says, feeling a little sick as the words leave his mouth. “I’m too old for you, Stiles.”

“So it’s not because you don’t want me.”

Derek closes his eyes. He can’t lie, not after what just happened between them.

“I want you,” he admits, hating that it’s the truth. “I do. But we can’t do that again. It’s not fair to you.”

“Well, I want you, too,” Stiles says, that familiar stubborn glint coming into his eyes. “And you know what’s _really_ not fair? You deciding what I can and can’t do. Shouldn’t I get some say in this?”

Derek sighs. “Stiles—”

“If you say I’m drunk again, I’m going to hit you.”

Derek feels suddenly, impossibly weary. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He doesn’t enjoy having to rebuff Stiles—it makes his heart hurt in a way that Derek hasn’t felt since Kate Argent. Right now, all he wants is to crawl into bed and forget.

“Fine,” he says at last. “You’re right. We should talk about it. But not tonight,” he adds when Stiles sits up, looking fully prepared to debate for hours. “It’s late, you’ve been drinking. It’s time for bed. We can talk about it in the morning.”

He gets to his feet and heads for the door, turning back and raising an eyebrow when Stiles follows.

“What?” Stiles says innocently. “You said it was time for bed!”

“Take the couch, Stiles. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Stiles grins at him and salutes, heading back to the couch without another word. It’s not until Derek’s flipped off the light and is about to head for the stairs that he hears Stiles’s voice emerge out of the darkness.

“Hey, Sourwolf?”

The nickname makes him roll his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You’re a good kisser.”


End file.
